The stories of others are wells, within them I lose money and I am able to drink. Narratives filter through the golden trees here; the garden is filled with swarms of ladybirds and swifts dart between the washing lines and the whitewashed south walls of the house. In my head, sonic architects are implicated in distraught love triangles in the Costa Rican rainforest; running through the cramped, winding streets of Athens are territorial battles between dissident artists and riot police; forced emigration from failing European economies is told of from past decades. There are echoes of these times within all of us, they have been told before. I use them now as indicators, to stop myself stealing them. In Berlin, one can see them written on walls, we buy them in markets and in coffee shops, amongst the rising heat.
It is colder today and it feels like the end of the week, but also like the start of something. The divisions of time attract all men, and calendars are truly built not upon monthly denominations but vast exchanges of influence, exchanges that influence which direction we may run or not. In seeing each new movement as an apprenticeship, a chance to learn from others, I keep myself in constant education. As I was told last week, whilst sitting in an international music conference, under glaring lights and between the hustle of brokered deals, it pays to keep close to those who continually push against barriers. While the majorities pick their way through the detritus of yet another forced progression, those that actually create new passageways into futures unknown work silently and entirely alone.